


I believe (in the human shield)

by ShadowSpires



Series: Fangs and Fur [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, it's not pretty or kind, it's war folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowSpires/pseuds/ShadowSpires
Summary: Hisak knows exactly what he would give for his General.





	I believe (in the human shield)

**Author's Note:**

> Arwen00710 gets all the blame for the title for presenting me with this song:  
> Human Shield by Stiff Little Fingers
> 
> "As you grow to realise, this world's a real hard town  
> I believe that we all need protection every day  
> And our friends will form a shield that works in every way  
> I believe in the human shield"

Hisak curls himself over Si-Yarl’s head, cursing the fact that he’s not  _ bigger _ .   
  
He’s always been happy to be a CC. Proud to serve a General and be in command of his  _ vode _ , not be a lone operator like the Alpha ARCs. But he’d give almost anything in this moment to have the bulk of an Alpha.    
  
As it is, he physically  _ cannot _ put more of himself between his unconscious General and the incoming barrage of blaster fire from the advancing line of droids, no matter how much he wants to.    
  
Three things are clear:   
The barrage is coming closer.    
He can not move his general.    
He  _ will not _ abandon him.    
  
Coolly, he calculates the angles. Drawing on what he knows of his general’s anatomy, he shifts himself enough to place the parts of his armored body that are not shielding his general’s head between the droid’s position and his general’s heart and lungs. Curling over him, he tucks his armored faceplate between the furred tufts of his General’s ears. He feels the rise and fall of Si-Yarl's breathing and _knows_ that he will give everything he is to preserve that sign of life even a moment longer.    
  
He holds on tight and listens to the barrage.    
  
It’s a grim, fatalistic source of amusement, that the droids don’t even know their own firing distance: they just see clone and start firing, advancing till they hit something. He can hear the barrage coming closer, tearing into the foliage behind them, charring the dirt and leaves, the terrified squeal of some animal as its life ends in sudden scorching death.    
  
It’s somehow still almost a surprise when the first bolt from a forward scout impacts the arm shielding his General’s neck. It makes him cry out from the pain --  startled into it -- but also in defiance, useless as it is. Another few seconds and the main bulk of the line will be in range, and then the world will be nothing but fire and agony. But maybe,  _ maybe _ , if the Force has any mercy for the wishes of clones, he can buy enough time with the worthless meat of his body for his General to regain consciousness and get himself away.    
  
Far worse than the cry that escaped him when the blaster bolt burrowed into his own flesh is the scream of rage and frustration that escapes him when one sears into the fur at Si-Yarl’s flank. It scorches fur and chars the muscles underneath, too far away, where he cannot protect him.

 

Another bolt slams into Hisak’s shoulder, burning plastiod melting into his flesh, armor scant protection when he won't run, can't fight back, can only wait for death to claim him, snarl defiantly in the face of it, noise catching in his throat, not as deep as his general can make it, but radiating stubborn  _ refusal _ to admit defeat.

 

Another blaster bolt hits his hip. 

 

Si-Yarl’s leg. 

 

His thigh. 

 

They are going to kill them by inches. 

 

The main bulk of the blaster bolts marches across the last few feet of bare ground before them. Inexorable. Unstoppable. 

 

“I’m sorry, General,” Hisak whispers into his General’s fur, unable to hear anything else except the encroaching death, roaring and clanking in his ears. “I wanted to… I’m sorry.”

 

The next bolt hits him square in the back, and his own breathless scream chases his regrets into darkness. 


End file.
